


let the bells ring on a fool's holiday

by almostoutofminutes



Series: Christmas [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostoutofminutes/pseuds/almostoutofminutes
Summary: Scott and Stiles have a Christmas tradition that follows them throughout the years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sciles Secret Santa gift for khylinrhambo! I hope they like it! And a big thank you goes out to the mods of the gift exchange, who were very patient with me during this whole process. 
> 
> I'm unclear on the timelines of all the seasons, which means I'm sort of guessing where Christmas took place during all of them (i.e. I placed it after the events of 5B). If you know or think I'm wrong, sorry. I did the best I could. 
> 
> Title based on "Fool's Holiday" by All Time Low. I promised I wouldn't use All Time Low for a fic title again, but that is my absolute favorite Christmas song, and I just couldn't help myself. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Scott!” Stiles nearly trips stepping off the school bus, his boots slipping on the slushy pavement. He doesn’t seem to notice, righting himself without a thought before running towards the swing set where he knows Scott is waiting for him. “Scott, guess what?”

Scott looks up from where he’s packing snow into a tight sphere. He grins. “Hey, Stiles.”

“I got you a present!” Stiles skids to a halt and swings his backpack over one shoulder, ripping open the zipper and rummaging around inside. He pulls out a small box wrapped in newspaper and miles of scotch tape. To the coolest kid in first grade (besides me) is written on top in black Sharpie, the handwriting much too neat to be Stiles’ (it’s his mom’s). 

Scott drops the snowball and reaches for the box. “Really? For me?” he asks, lighting up. 

“No, for Jackson,” Stiles mutters. “Yes, for you!”

“That’s so nice!” Scott exclaims. “You’re so nice, Stiles.”

Stiles squints at him. “No, I’m not. Nobody thinks that.”

“Well, I think that.” Scott reaches over and rubs a snowy glove all over Stiles’ face, giggling.

“Hey!” Stiles swipes at his hand, frowning. “Never mind, you suck. Give it back.”

Scott steps back, holding it above his head and out of Stiles’ reach, still laughing. “No, it was a present! It’s mine, now.”

Stiles reaches up, grunting when Scott jerks it away again. “One day I’m gonna be taller than you, and then you’ll be sorry.”

“Not today, though,” Scott fires back. He starts tearing at the newspaper and tape, letting bits of it flutter down to the ground. Stiles steps back to watch him, getting excited again despite himself. He worked really hard thinking of what to get Scott. If he doesn’t like it, Stiles might actually die.

Scott’s eyebrows go up. “No way!” he shouts, ripping the last piece of paper away and revealing the box for a toy police car. It’s one they both saw and drooled over last time Mrs. McCall took them to the toy store. Both of their dads are cops, so naturally it’s their favorite game to play.

“Yes, way!” Stiles flaps a hand at him. “Open it!”

Pulling off one glove, Scott tears at the cardboard and pulls out the plastic lining. He peers inside.

And frowns. He shouldn’t be frowning. Why is he frowning?

Stiles furrows his brow. “What is it? Do you not like it?”

Scott holds the box upside down. “It’s empty.”

For a second, Stiles doesn’t understand. He bought it himself. It was sealed. He never opened it. How could it be empty?

To his surprise, Scott starts laughing. Hard. Large, hiccupy laughs that make his shoulders shake and his arms cross over his stomach. “You got me an empty box? I take back what I said about you being nice!”

“It wasn’t supposed to be empty!” Stiles grabs it from him and looks inside, half expecting Scott to be lying. He’s not. It’s actually empty. The plastic lining is there, along with the paper booklet, but no toy car. It’s just...not there.

“You bought it empty? That’s even better!” Scott is in hysterics at this point, his eyes bright with tears. 

“Shut up!” Stiles shouts. He wants to be mad at the toy store for selling him an empty box, at Scott for laughing, at himself for not realizing it sooner. But looking up at his friend, bent at the waist, the anger doesn’t really stick.

He looks down at his feet. Smiling, he reaches down. He winds his arm back, Scott’s abandoned snowball in hand. “Psych! This is your real present!”

Scott will tell him later that their snowball fight is the best present he could have asked for. 

When Scott comes to school the next day holding a gift bag filled with nothing but tissue paper? Even better. 

⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫

Scott is nervous.

He shouldn’t be. He and Stiles have been doing this for years, ever since that first time in first grade. And it’s not like there’s any pressure to make the right choice; the present is supposed to suck. He could wrap dirt inside a box and Stiles would probably pee himself laughing. (Note to self: good idea for next year.)

Then again, it’s not the actual present that’s making him nervous. It’s whether or not Stiles will remember.

Sixth grade has changed things. Girls are growing boobs and wearing makeup, and guys are starting to fight about everything (mostly the girls), and Scott keeps having to buy bigger clothes, which sucks because they don’t have much money in the first place. Hormones have taken over, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Especially when it comes to Stiles. Stiles has always had a crush on Lydia, but now his testosterone is getting involved, and that has turned his crush up to eleven. He’s obsessed. So many conversations are about Lydia. They pick where they sit at lunch so he can eavesdrop on her table. Scott has had to sit and watch silently as Stiles spent an hour googling “how to impress girls.” It’s to the point where Scott asked his mom to talk to Stiles, or have the Sheriff do it, because he’s worried what Stiles is doing is wrong.

They must not have gotten around to it, though, because Stiles has spent all of December hunting down the perfect Christmas gift for Lydia. All month. Scott is entirely sick of the mall, at this point. He never wants to step foot in there again.

But because of this obsession, Scott is worried that Stiles has forgotten about their tradition. What if Scott gives him his gift and Stiles has nothing in return and it’s awkward? Last year was the first time Scott’s dad didn’t send him anything in the mail. Scott’s not sure he can deal with being forgotten again. 

But here he is. Standing by the corner of the school building, gift in hand, waiting for Stiles to get off the bus. They’re best friends, and you’re supposed to have faith in your best friends, right? So here he is.

“Scott!”

He looks up from where he’d been staring at the ground, eyes snapping back into focus. Stiles is heading towards him, waving a gift bag in the air. Scott’s heart starts pounding. “Hey, Stiles,” he stammers.

“Can’t talk right now, but wish me luck!” Stiles says, clapping a hand on Scott’s shoulder as he walks past. “I’m giving Lydia her gift before homeroom!”

Scott swallows painfully, his fingers tightening on the box in his hands. “Good luck,” he says softly, but Stiles has already turned away. The school door clangs shut behind him.

The whole experiences does nothing to help Scott’s nerves. Didn’t they say they’d exchange gifts this morning? Or did he make that up? Did Stiles forget? He spends the whole morning with frayed nerves, painfully aware of the wrapped box sitting in his backpack. The clock moves slow, slow, slow, like the world is wading through honey, but eventually he can head to lunch.

When he enters the lunch room, he spots Lydia first. That’s usually his strategy: look for Lydia, and Stiles will be close by. To his surprise, though, Stiles is nowhere to be seen. Confused and a little worried, Scott casts his gaze around the lunch room, looking for a familiar buzz cut.

He doesn’t look out at the big wall of windows, and that ends up being his mistake. He nearly jumps out of his skin when something bangs on the window directly to his left, his eyes widening as he turns. Stiles is staring at him from outside, hands and nose pressed to the glass. His nose and cheeks are already red from the cold, but he gestures for Scott to join him, waving an arm impatiently. 

Suddenly wishing he had his coat, Scott finds the door leading out to the courtyard and steps through. He shivers at the sudden bite of cold wind. “Why are you out here?” he asks by way of greeting. 

Stiles scowls. “I wanted to be alone.”

Scott glances around. They certainly are that; no one wants to eat lunch outside in December. “Why? What happened?”

Sitting on a snowy bench, Stiles leans against the table and buries his face in his hands. “Lydia didn’t want my gift.”

Sympathetic but not exactly surprised, Scott sits next to him. He winces as the snow starts melting under his jeans. “Really? Why not?”

Shrugging, Stiles glances at him somberly. “I don’t know. She just handed it back without even opening it. Said ‘no thanks.’ In front of everyone.”

Scott bumps his shoulder into Stiles’. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I know you put a lot of work into finding that gift.”

Stiles sighs. “What is it, Scott? What’s wrong with me? What am I missing?”

“Nothing,” Scott says firmly. He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Well, you might be coming on too strong, but you? As a person? You’re amazing. You’re smart and you’re funny--”

“You’re obligated to say that. You’re my best friend,” Stiles cuts in, looking over at him doubtfully.

“--and you’re really nice--”

“Rude. Take that back.”

“--and you’re just….” Scott throws his hands up in the air helplessly. “You’re awesome. Okay?”

Stiles is still staring at him. Scott can’t quite read his expression. “Really?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Yes. Just...tone it down. You’re acting like a stalker. Respect her boundaries.”

He expects a glare, an eye roll, something smart-ass, but Stiles just smiles at him. “Thanks, Scott. I think….I think I needed to hear that.”

Scott beams. Cheering up Stiles has to be one of his top three favorite feelings. “No problem. Do you--”

“Oh!” Stiles shouts, straightening up. He reaches into the backpack on the ground next to him and pulls out the gift bag from this morning. It’s slightly crumpled now. “Your present,” he announces grandly.

Scott glances at it, hiding his nerves behind a taut grin. It looks like the one he had earlier. Wasn’t that for Lydia? Is this...is he getting her rejected present? 

He rips into the tissue paper, his fingers closing around something smooth and cool at the bottom of the bag. He pulls it out, his hand actually shaking a little bit. 

Nail polish. Three bottles of nail polish, all bright and garish in color.

He tries to laugh along with Stiles, but his doubts won’t leave him alone. Was this for Lydia? The colors are neon and hideous, but who’s to say Stiles has good taste? Or what if Scott is overthinking it? What if--

“What’s wrong?” Stiles’ voice cuts through the noise in Scott’s head.

Straightening his shoulders, Scott tries another smile. “What do you mean? It’s great.”

“Stop that. You’re upset. Why are you upset? I mean, I know they aren’t your colors, but--”

“Were these for Lydia?” Scott blurts, clutching a bottle tightly in his hand.

Whatever he expects --denial, an admission of guilt, a lie-- it’s certainly not the anger that flashes over Stiles’ face. “Excuse me?” he asks, clearly affronted. 

Scott blinks. “Uh--”

“First of all, the fact that you think I’m that bad at shopping for girls, especially The Girl, is offensive.”

“But--”

“Second of all, the fact that you think I’d be so tacky as to regift a rejected gift is even more offensive.”

“Okay, but--”

“And finally, what? Did you think I forgot to get you a present? That I improvised by giving you Lydia’s leftovers? Because, honestly, that’s the most offensive part of this whole mess. How could you think I’d forget you?” Stiles asks. This time it’s him bumping Scott on the shoulder, nearly shoving him off the bench.

Scott just ducks his head, looking down at his lap. “I don’t know. You’ve just been so preoccupied with Lydia’s gift, I wondered if…” He shakes his head again. “I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

“Yeah, you were,” Stiles responds, throwing an arm around Scott’s neck. “I’ll never forget you. Girls or no girls, Lydia or no Lydia, you will always be my best friend. No one will ever get in the way of that.”

Scott looks over at him, heart swelling. This close, he can see just how red Stiles’ nose is, how flecked his eyes are, how his hair is just a little too long to be a proper buzz. “Thanks, Stiles.” He smiles wryly. “I really needed to hear that.”

Stiles doesn’t respond for a moment, staring at Scott with a look in his eyes Scott doesn’t understand. Then he stands abruptly, forcing Scott to crane his neck up to see him.

“Let’s go inside. It’s cold. Why’d you drag me out here anyway?” Stiles huffs, pulling Scott out of his own seat. 

Scott grins. And if he’s wearing bright orange nail polish on his nails the next day, Stiles doesn’t mention it. He has no room to talk; he’s wearing the garish antlers Scott gave him, and he’s wearing them proudly.

⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫

Stiles nearly forgets the whole thing sophomore year. 

To be fair, though, Scott hasn’t shown any signs of remembering it either. They have a lot on their plates, what with the whole werewolf thing. Or more accurately, the werewolf thing, the kanima thing, the hunter thing, the Derek thing, the--

Basically, they have other things on their minds.

But once Stiles remembers their tradition, he becomes preoccupied with it. Perhaps unhealthily so. Every spare moment he isn’t 1) dealing with life-threatening stuff or 2) doing the bare minimum of schoolwork, he’s looking online for the perfect gag gift. It makes no sense to put so much effort into it, considering the gift isn’t supposed to be good, but here he is. Sitting at his desk, laptop burning, eyes straining from the glare. He should have been asleep hours ago. He probably won’t sleep for another couple of hours.

Maybe it’s because he and Scott have had to learn how to get bloodstains out of almost every piece of clothing they own. Maybe it’s because the weight of the world is suddenly on Scott’s shoulders, and Stiles is drowning in the shadows of it. Maybe it’s because all of this and more is suddenly asphyxiating them with stress, and they’re not even old enough to vote. Maybe it’s because Scott looks so goddamn tired all the time when he thinks no one is looking, and Stiles is sick to death of never knowing how Scott is really doing, because the bruises never actually last. 

Either way, Stiles just wants some goddamn normalcy in their low-budget horror movie lives, and if getting Scott a hilariously shitty Christmas gift is how he accomplishes that goal, then so fucking be it.

But no matter where he looks or what he finds, nothing seems right. They usually just get each other cheap, poorly made, ugly-ass objects the other would never actually want or need, but that’s not enough this year. Getting Kroc's or a tacky sweater won’t be enough to pull Scott out of his head. Hell, it wouldn’t be enough to pull Stiles out of his head.

He just....he wants to do this right. It has to be perfect. Everyone has sacrificed so much, and people have died, and Scott is the hub trying desperately to support the spokes, and Stiles is worried he’s starting to crack. Stiles may not be able to fight worth a damn, but he can damn well support his pack. And that apparently means Christmas shopping. 

Besides, if there’s one thing Stiles was put on this earth to do, it’s be there for Scott McCall. As much as he bitched about it, someone needs to be the smart-ass sidekick to Scott’s dashing--

He freezes, fingers poised over his keyboard. The idea is already forming in his head, and it feels perfect. He knows it’s perfect. He knows it’s perfect in his bones. That’s how perfect it is. So he doesn’t hesitate. 

He has doubts over the next few days, though. He worries that it’s lame, that it’ll backfire, that it’ll make Scott sad or angry. The last thing he wants to do is make things worse. 

So he rides that roller coaster all week, vacillating between smug satisfaction and preemptive shame almost daily. Unfortunately, he’s trapped deep in a valley when he manages to corner Scott alone in the hallway, without Allison or Lydia or anyone else nearby. He can’t make himself wait for a better opportunity, though; he’s too terrified to wait any longer.

“Here,” he grunts, shoving the soft package into Scott’s arms. “Merry Christmas.”

Scott blinks down at it, clearly surprised. “You remembered?” he asks softly, looking up at Stiles.

Frowning, Stiles crosses his arms. “Of course I did. I mean, sure, it took me longer than normal, but come on. There’s been a lot going on.”

“Of course,” Scott agrees, nodding vigorously. “Definitely. I just wondered, with the way everything has been changing, if--”

“Some things are never going to change,” Stiles interrupts him, making sure to hold Scott’s gaze. He’s not sure he knows what he’s trying to say. That they’ll always be best friends? That he’ll always be there for Scott? That even if the world is falling down around them, he’ll always make time for buying him trashy gifts?

Probably all of the above.

“Open it,” he prompts, pointing at it.

Finally smiling, Scott rips into the paper, revealing a handwritten note and Stiles’ best effort at a present. 

“For my hero,” Scott reads out loud. “From your loving Robin.” He holds up the Batman thong, uncaring of the people walking by, and immediately bursts into surprised laughter.

Stiles squirms, relaxing slightly. He wants to say something snarky, but all that comes out is a soft, “You like it?” It’s obvious, though: Scott loves it. Thank god Scott loves it.

“Oh my god. No, you don’t understand, this is…” Scott suddenly swings his backpack off his shoulder and rips it open, digging around for a second before pulling out a package and tossing it at Stiles. “Please open it, oh my god.”

Raising an eyebrow, Stiles peels back the paper. Scott also included a handwritten note. Sidekick in the streets, hero in the sheets. It’s laying on top of--

“Holy shit!” Stiles shouts, holding up the panties. They’re not exactly the same as Scott’s pair, but they’re women’s underwear, and they’re covered in the Batman symbol, and this is just too fucking cool. “Holy shit!” he repeats, flapping the skimpy material in Scott’s face.

Scott, for his part, just keeps laughing, and Stiles is suddenly awestruck. It’s been ages since he’s seen Scott laugh like this, and he misses it. He misses them. He misses getting Scott all to himself, misses seeing his eyes crinkle from smiles instead of stress, misses sleepovers where their biggest worry was whether or not they’d get invited to some stupid middle school party. 

Those moments may never come as often as they used to. Things are different now. They’re always in danger, they have new responsibilities, and they’re going to suffer so much more than they already have. 

But as long as he has what really matters --his dad and his friends and Scott McCall and his sunbeam smile-- he knows the world will be okay.

He will take this secret to his grave, but the next day is spent wearing the panties. It feels weird and unfamiliar, but he does it because it’s hilarious.

He’s pretty sure Scott does the same.

⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫

Things don’t go back to normal, post Dread Doctors. Scott wants them to go back to normal, he really does, but something just won’t click. He feels incomplete, unfinished, halved, and he can’t pinpoint why. 

Stiles seems to think they’re back to normal. He doesn’t seem as angry anymore, and he seems to have forgiven Scott for not believing him about Theo. He’s even been laughing lately, which isn’t something Scott has heard a lot of lately.

And he’s not the only one. Everyone seems back to normal. Lydia, Malia, Liam, Mason, Hayden, his mom, everyone. So why does Scott feel like he’s trapped in a snow globe, watching the world through solid glass?

It’s been about a month of this. A month of spacing out when someone is talking to him, of startling when someone touches him, of lying in bed every night and not being able to fall asleep. A solid month of feeling hazy and distant, and of feeling frustrated because he can’t seem to snap out of it. People are starting to notice, too. Teachers are giving him Concerned Speeches for the first time since sophomore year because he can’t focus in class. His friends have been sharing odd looks whenever he ducks away from their touches. Even his mom has noticed; she’s come into his room after a night shift to find him wide awake at four in the morning. He can’t seem to bring it up to anyone, though. Not even Deaton, who has been nothing but patient whenever Scott spaces out or does something clumsy at work. 

First, he doesn’t know what’s bothering him. Second, he doesn’t even know if something should be bothering him. They saved the day, right? He should have processed the trauma and moved on, like everyone else did. Because of this, his plan is to avoid it forever and hope he gets over himself, like any sane person would. 

That apparently won’t cut it, though. After the fourth night in a row his mom has found him awake in the middle of the night, she decides to do something about it.

“Scott?” she murmurs. His eyes are trained on the ceiling, but he can still feel the dip in the mattress when she sits at the end of it. He jerks when she rests her hand on his ankle.

“Yeah?” he asks, aiming for casual and falling short. 

“Tell me what’s wrong.” She always does that. She jumps right in, doesn’t even bother asking if there’s something wrong because she already knows the answer. And she’s right. Something is wrong. Scott just doesn’t know what it is.

He could lie. Say it’s nothing, just school and lacrosse. He’s tired. Worried about college. Something normal. But he’s never been a fan of lying to his mom, and he just doesn’t have the energy. 

“I don’t know,” he says. He sounds empty, even to his own ears. “I just don’t feel right.”

She squeezes his ankle. “Honey, you’ve been through a lot. It’s bound to catch up with you at some point.”

“It can’t be that,” he mutters. “Everyone else is fine, and they’ve been through just as much as I have.” 

“I’d be willing to bet they’re not fine. No one is ever really fine. They just hide all the bad stuff behind a mask. Like you’ve been trying to do.”

Trying and failing, Scott thinks bitterly. If Mom is right, what is it he’s hanging onto? What trauma is so exponentially worse than all the others that it’s affecting him like nothing else? “Why now?” he asks out loud, frustration leaking into his voice. “Why am I suddenly so weak? I used to be able to handle this.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Melissa sighs. She shifts so that she’s sitting closer to his head, running her fingers through his hair. It’s almost painful, how nice it feels. “This isn’t the first time you’ve had trouble.”

His eyes drift shut. “I know, but it’s never been this bad before, has it? I’ve always been okay in the end.”

“You always got back up,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t happen on its own. You have to face what’s hurting you. So what’s hurting you?”

Everything. Nothing. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. But he knows the truth. The elephant in the room is too big to ignore.

He died. For fifteen minutes, and for the third time, he was dead. And when he came back, one of the first people he saw chose to slam him into the wall and then the floor, breaking open a wound that hadn’t quite healed. Stiles had been so angry, so cold, so uncaring, and as mundane as it sounds, Scott was hurt. The one person besides his mom that he can always count on, has always counted on, and he didn’t care about hurting Scott. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been silent, but it’s his mom who finally speaks. “I noticed you haven’t gotten Stiles a Christmas gift yet,” she observes innocently. 

Eyes wide, he blinks up at her. 

She leans down to kiss his forehead. “Goodnight, Scott.”

Melissa never mentions it again, but it sticks violently in Scott’s mind over the next few weeks. It sticks with him when he gets mediocre grades back on his tests, when he drops an entire bag of cat food at work, and when Kira leaves and he has no one to talk to about how much he misses her. In other words, he thinks about it a lot. 

The problem is, how does he talk to Stiles about it? Stiles went through his own traumas. Why should he have to listen to Scott talk about his hurt feelings?

But this isn’t going away. He’s tried to stamp it down, but it just keeps popping up. It’s even worse now because he finally has a name for it: loss. Loss of what their friendship used to be, loss of the certainty that he could count on Stiles, loss of the certainty that he, Scott, is worth a damn. After all, how bad does he have to fuck up for his oldest friend to toss him aside?

He’s spiraling, even he can see that. So he has to fix this. Either Stiles will give a shit, or he won’t. But at least Scott will have tried.

He figures their Christmas tradition is as good a place to start as any. For privacy’s sake, he asks if they can exchange at Stiles’ house. What he fails to take into account is how nerve-wracking the whole thing is; walking up the Stilinski’s driveway, he’s sure he’s going to accidentally wolf out and tear the gift bag into shreds. 

He hesitates at the front door. He hasn’t rung the doorbell in years; he’s always just walked in unannounced. Now, he’s not sure he still has the liberty.

Stiles beats him to it, opening the door and immediately furrowing his brow. “Hey. You, uh. You coming in?”

Swallowing uncomfortably, Scott nods and steps inside. The house is warm, and it smells like the cookies Stiles won’t admit he likes baking, but Scott has never felt so ill at ease. He tries to shake it off as they climb the stairs to Stiles’ bedroom, warm cookies and presents in hand, but the feeling won’t leave.

Stiles notices. He keeps giving Scott weird looks, and when Scott just stands in the doorway of his room, he says, “Contrary to what we believed when we were six, the floor is not, in fact, hot lava. Come on in.”

Scott steps in and walks over to Stiles’ desk chair. He could sit next to Stiles on the bed, but he’s too nervous. He needs the distance.

The plan was to do presents first and then have a heart-to-heart, but Scott’s mouth seems to have other plans. Before he can stop himself, he says, “I think we need to talk.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Is it about how weird you’ve been acting lately? Because it’s been wigging me out. It’s like being friends with a robot.”

Scott winces. “Sort of. I just...I’m not sure we really resolved everything that happened--”

Stiles groans loudly, flopping backwards onto his bed. He puts one arm over his eyes as if he’s taking a nap. “Can we please not? I’m kind of done thinking about the trainwreck that was our first semester of senior year.” 

“I mean, yeah, me too, but--”

“It’s all water under the bridge anyway--”

“No, it’s not.”

Stiles peeks out from under his arm. “What do you mean?”

“You...I mean…” Scott huffs in frustration. “You have to admit you weren’t a very good friend to me. And I’m just...bothered. By that.”

He thought it would feel good to get that off his chest. Instead, he just feels more unsettled. More agitated. 

And for good reason, apparently. “Oh, for god’s sake,” Stiles says dismissively, sitting up. “Because I pushed you? Because I yelled at you? Last I checked, you’re a fucking werewolf. I’m sure you can handle it.”

“That’s just it, man. I’m not just a werewolf, I’m your friend. I shouldn’t be your punching bag just because I heal faster and you’re mad. For fuck’s sake, I can still feel pain.”

“You didn’t--”

“What, Stiles?” Scott explodes, standing up. The present falls out of his lap and onto the carpet. “I didn’t believe you? About Theo? I didn’t trust you? Who in this room hid the fact that they killed someone because they didn’t trust me?”

“I didn’t--”

“But it’s okay, because people make mistakes, right? Except for me, apparently. God forbid I make a mistake, because apparently it means I deserve to be thrown around like a fucking ragdoll to teach me a lesson.”

“My dad almost died,” Stiles shouts back, standing up and pushing into Scott’s space. He’s angry, now, in a way Scott can never seem to match. Scott’s anger is like gasoline running through his veins instead of blood; Stiles’ anger is in the blood itself. 

“I did die!” Scott feels the familiar darkness in his chest throb, like it’s gotten bigger since the Nemeton ripped it into existence. “Someone I trust and care about tried to rip me apart, and when he couldn’t finish the job, someone else I trusted did. And then you come in and blame me for not being there to save your dad. Did you even care about what happened to me?” Scott asks, his voice cracking. That’s what it comes down to. It’s the root of his problem; does Stiles still care about him? Or has he lost him? 

“It’s not like you’re the only one who’s died and come back,” Stiles snaps.

Scott can only blink at him, shocked. His eyes sting, but he refuses to do more than let the tears blur his vision. Stiles’ words amount to a resounding no, and Scott will be damned if he gives Stiles the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

After a moment of horrible, agonizing eye contact with Stiles’ blank expression, Scott turns to leave. 

Before he can get very far, Stiles reaches out and snatches his wrist. “Wait,” he says, suddenly panicked. 

Scott shakes him off. He looks back at him, expectant, but Stiles just clenches his jaw, mute and frustrated.

Shaking his head, Scott moves towards the door again. “I get it, okay? Just let me--”

“No, stop,” Stiles interrupts, grabbing his wrist again. He drops it when Scott shoots him a glare, but he doesn’t back down. “Please, just don’t go.”

Scott scowls. “Why not, Stiles? Why should I stay? If you can’t even--”

“I’m sorry!” Stiles blurts. He says it through gritted teeth, and he still looks angry, but he’s no longer glaring. 

Still, Scott’s not sure if he should believe it. Stiles has been known to make insincere apologies, if pressured. Scott should know; he was always next to Stiles, making his own apologies. To teachers, to their parents, to everyone. Always side by side. Partners in crime. That might be the only thing keeping Scott in the room.

Stiles must see the doubt on his face, because he presses on. “I mean it. I’m sorry. I really am. For all of it.”

Unsure of how to respond, Scott settles for just turning back around to face him. 

There’s another moment of eye contact, Stiles’ eyes hard and bright. Then, without warning, he sighs and collapses back onto the bed, head in his hands. Surprised, Scott falls back into the office chair. 

“I’m just…angry,” Stiles says softly, still staring at the carpet. “I don’t know why. I’m just angry, and I’m always scared something else is going to happen, and I think about losing everyone, and I…” He looks up at Scott. He looks heartbroken. “Scott, you have to believe me. I didn’t know what had happened when you came to the hospital that night, and when your mom told me after the fact--” He shakes his head. “I’ve had nightmares about it. About you not waking up. About everyone else dying with you.” 

Scott frowns. “Then why--”

“Why do you think? Have I ever been good at displaying healthy emotion?”

Scott bristles. “That’s not an--”

“No, it’s not an excuse. It’s a factor, but that doesn’t make it okay. I shouldn’t have put it all on you. I should never put it all on you. I shouldn’t cause you pain just because you’ll heal. I shouldn’t do any of it. And I know that. I haven’t always, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and your mom has had some very strongly worded conversations with me, and--”

“She has?” Scott asks. He doesn’t know why that is what he latches onto, but he does.

“Yeah. Very strongly worded. And Scott, she’s right. You’re right. I haven’t been a very good friend to you.”

Scott is floored. He’s had weeks to think about all this, to figure out his emotions and formulate a plan to deal with them. He just never expected Stiles to have done the same thing; he thought Stiles wouldn’t have given this a thought.

Then again, he’s spent weeks thinking Stiles was fine, like everything they’d been through had slid right off his back. Apparently, he’s never been so wrong. Stiles looks wrecked. He was paranoid before the Dread Doctors, and that apparently has not gone away. Maybe Stiles isn’t the only oblivious one.

“I appreciate that, Stiles,” he says. “I’m sorry, too.” It’s a little bland, considering the maelstrom of emotion whirling through him right now, but it’ll have to do. He gives Stiles a small smile and picks up his present. “Here.”

He knows the rest will have to come later. It’ll be hard, and slow-going, and it may be a while before things feel completely normal, but watching Stiles take the present, mouth quirking into a small grin? Grabbing the present Stiles holds out to him? It all feels absurdly, disgustingly normal. 

And honestly? For now? That’s all Scott really needs. 

⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫

Things eventually do get back to normal. And it’s nice, for a while. Then, gradually but somehow without any warning, things become Not Normal again.

In a different way, though. In a way that Stiles never anticipated, because what the hell, right? What the actual hell?

Since when is he into his best friend?

He knows that it’s not something that actually sneaks up on you. Stiles is as oblivious as they come, but even he would have had to pick up on the clues, right? And looking back, they were fairly obvious. Making a final decision about college and figuring out his only requirements are 1) it’s affordable and 2) Scott is nearby. Graduating high school and wanting nothing more than to hang out with Scott, even though they both got numerous party invites and things were still minimally awkward between them. Planning a goodbye party for all of their friends, and spending the entire time glued to Scott’s side. Making a dinner for his dad the night before he moves out and inviting Scott and Melissa without a thought.

Then there are the comments from other people. The “where’s your boyfriend, Stiles?” and the “god, you’re such an old married couple” and the “Scott and Stiles can share the bed, they probably do anyway.” And the fact that yes, Stiles usually knows where Scott is, and yes, they bicker all the time, and yes, they’ve shared the bed before, but still. How was Stiles supposed to know he would end up with a crush?

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. His dad always told him that the love of your life is the person you consider your best friend. The person you never get sick of, even when they’re at their most annoying. The person you want by your side during every victory and every shame, the highest highs and lowest lows. Stiles has thought that person was a couple different people over the years. And he still loves Malia and Lydia, in his way. But it has always, always, always come down to Scott. 

Even when Stiles was at his worst, at his angriest, when he had convinced himself that Scott had royally fucked up, he couldn’t let Scott walk away. That means something, right? Even when he thought he had every reason to, he couldn’t let Scott walk away. 

All of that information filters into his head over the course of a couple weeks. He and Scott will bump hands, and he’ll suddenly remember the first time they met, and how that day goes down as one of the best moments of his life. They’ll be sitting up late on their couch, their apartment flickering with the light from the television, and he’ll suddenly realize just how beautiful Scott really is. His dad will ask him if there’s anyone special in his life, and his mind will automatically drift to Scott. 

That’s all it takes. A couple of weeks, and then he’s sitting up in bed, eyes wide in horror, laptop sliding off his lap as he realizes one important, life-altering fact: he’s in love with Scott.

Well, that might be premature. He loves Scott, that much is certain. Loves him more than anyone else in the world, besides his dad. But to be in love with someone, you have to try dating them first, right? How can he possibly know that before he actually dates Scott?

Shit, does he want to date Scott?

This is too much. 

His phone is in his hand before he can decide otherwise. The voice on the other end of the line is not happy.

“What do you mean, ‘I might be into Scott’?” Lydia asks.

“What do you think I mean?” Stiles snaps. “It’s not that hard to understand, Lydia.”

“Well, sure. What’s hard to understand is why you’re only now bringing this up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, come on, Stiles. You guys have been married for years. I just thought you were ignoring it. I thought, ‘Wow, even Scott and Stiles aren’t that stupid. They’re just afraid fo going for it.”

“Shut up. You’re supposed to be helping.”

Lydia huffs. “I am. I’m telling you that yes, you’re into Scott, and it’s actually fairly obvious.”

Stiles grunts and falls back onto his bed, the heel of his hand digging into his eye. “That is such bullshit. Don’t act like you knew it all along, or whatever else makes you feel like you know shit. You could not have kept your mouth shut if you thought something was going on.”

Lydia is silent for a moment, and Stiles smirks, despite himself. He’s gotten so good at detecting her nonsense. “Fine,” she says. “This is the first I’m hearing about it or even thinking about it. But I’m not lying when I say I’m not actually that surprised.”

Stiles frowns. “Really? Why?”

“Because of all the reasons that are running through your head, I’m sure. Because you might be stupid, Stiles, but you’re not actually stupid.”

“Thanks?”

“Now stop calling me. There’s a time difference. It’s three hours later here. I was sleeping.”

Stiles glances at his clock and frowns. She’s right; it’s currently three in the morning in Boston. Oh well. Mission accomplished. That’s one person who doesn’t think he’s out of his fucking mind.

He dials again. This time, the voice on the other end of the line isn’t unhappy, merely exhausted. “What is it, Stiles?” his dad asks, his words slurred with sleep.

“I think I’m into Scott.”

There’s a pause. “Okay. What do you want me to do about it?”

Stiles’ jaw drops open. “Really? That’s all you’ve got for me? No words of wisdom? You’re certainly old enough to have a few.”

“Ha ha. Your repertoire of old person jokes ran stale a long time ago.”

Stiles bangs his fist into his forehead. “So you really have nothing to say about it? I’m having a crisis here, Dad. This is a big moment for me.”

“What do you want, approval? Because I’ve been approving of Scott ever since you met him. Some days I like him better than I like you. What difference does it make to me what you do together in the privacy of your own apartment?”

It takes a second, but then Stiles gets where his father is going, and his face heats up. “Fuck, Dad, can you not? I don’t need--”

“Just talk to him, Stiles,” the Sheriff says gently. “Honestly. Scott has a good head on his shoulders, and he’d do anything for you. You two will figure this out.”

Humming nervously, Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. Out of nowhere, he remembers the day Scott suggested he grow it out, just for fun. He hasn’t buzzed it since.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you, too, son.”

That’s two people. Two people who think this isn’t a terrible idea. Two people who seem to think Scott wouldn’t be averse to it.

He could keep going. He could call everyone they know and ask for a detailed analysis of his relationship with Scott. He could make a pros and cons list, or tally up the “for” and “against” opinions. He could write an essay, write body paragraph after body paragraph until he finally knows what he’s trying to say, and then he can finally write his introduction.

But it’s midnight, and he’s been awake since five in the morning, and he doesn’t have the energy for all that. And besides, there’s only one person he really needs to talk to.

And after glancing at the date on his phone, he knows exactly how to do it. 

He’s never been more thankful for college towns, where everything is open late and no one judges you for your purchases. Besides, this isn’t really an uncommon purchase, right? Not at all. The cashier doesn’t even bat an eyelash. 

He can’t find any gift bags or boxes in the gas station, though, and he doesn’t have the patience to figure something else out, so he just races back to his apartment and wraps it in spare notebook paper. It doesn’t take that long, and part of him wishes it had taken longer; he needs more time to think. 

Then again, he’s been thinking for weeks. He’s sick of thinking. It’s all he ever does. And he doesn’t want to be one of those schmucks who spends months pining and being afraid and ends up making some dramatic declaration in front of an embarrassing number of people. Time to do. 

Notebook package in hand, he hesitates in front of Scott’s door. He can hear the muffled sounds of State Champs filtering out from the crack under the door. Scott is probably working on homework that’s due tomorrow, because he’s smart and he’s a good student but some things never change. 

Before Stiles can actually knock, the door opens, and Scott looks at him oddly. “Hey, Stiles. What’s up?”

Oh, right. Werewolf. He could probably hear Stiles standing out in the hallway like a jackass. Or smell him. God, what does he smell like right now? Probably stress sweat.

“Stiles?”

“Oh!” Stiles startles. “Yeah, yes, I am.” With that, he barrels in past Scott, immediately going over to sit on Scott’s bed. He immediately regrets it; his dad’s insinuation is still burning inside his head, and it isn’t helping. When Scott sits next to him, he has to scoot a few feet away just to keep from passing out. 

“Is that my Christmas present?” Scott asks, surprised. “It’s kind of early, I don’t actually have yours yet--”

“No, that’s fine,” Stiles says hurriedly. “I got it early--”

“You mean five minutes ago?” Scott asks, cocking his head to one side. 

Stiles blinks. “Um.” 

“I heard some commotion earlier.”

That’s the moment Stiles’ heart nearly dies. How could he forget? Fucking werewolves. How much did he hear? Oh god, if he heard him talking to Lydia and his dad….

“I didn’t hear much,” Scott continues, and Stiles nearly collapses with relief. “My music was too loud. I just heard you rushing around for a while, and then you left, and then you came back. Is that why you went out?” he asks, nodding at the notebook paper.

“Uh, yes,” Stiles says, looking down at it. “Yes, it’s why I went out. I wanted to get your present and give it to you now.”

Scott raises an eyebrow, but then shrugs. He’s used to Stiles’ erratic behavior by now. He sticks a hand out and makes a grabbing motion. “Okay, hand it over.”

“No,” Stiles says, holding it out of reach. It’s so great that he’s finally taller than Scott. Puberty actually did something right. “This present comes with a disclaimer.”

“A disclaimer?”

“A preface.”

“A preface?”

“Is there an echo in here?”

“What’s the preface, Stiles?” 

“Okay, so I’ve been thinking--”

“Always a dangerous pastime.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, but he’s smiling. “Okay, so over the past few weeks, I’ve been noticing that….Um, it seems like….It appears that….”

“Oh, look. Christmas has come and gone. I’ve graduated college. I’ve passed into the twilight of my life.”

“Shut up!” Stiles shouts. And then, in typical Stilinski fashion (because let’s be real, he comes by this honestly), he does something very stupid at the absolute worst moment possible; he tackles Scott to the bed. It’s something they’ve done a stupid number of times, tackling each other and punching each other and pulling at each other’s clothes in the way that kids do. It’s sort of wrestling, sort of fistfighting, sort of everything in between. And normally, it’s not a problem. 

But this moment isn’t normal.

It doesn’t help that Scott lets him win. He’ll do that once in awhile, if only because Stiles can hardly seem to win on his own anymore. It would be patronizing if Scott wasn’t so damn sincere.

But that means he ends up here, pinning Scott to the comforter by his wrists, like this is one of those stupid romance novels he absolutely does not read, shut up, Scott. And he came in here to confess that he’s into Scott, and he has a bunch of notebook paper covering a pile of--

Then they’re kissing, and Stiles honestly thinks that he did it without meaning to. For a moment, he’s convinced his body is going on a rampage without his consent, and he’s going to cause all sorts of destruction. 

But Scott is pulling back and muttering a horrified, “Sorry,” like this isn’t the ideal situation for Stiles: minimal talking, maximum action. “I know that’s super random, and it’s probably coming out of nowhere for you, but I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and it makes sense, doesn’t it? God, Stiles, I love you, I’ve always known that, but as a friend. Then there were all these people telling me we should date, and at first I was like, what the fuck, but then I thought about it, and--”

“So how long have you been thinking about this?” Stiles interrupts, honestly curious. This maybe shouldn’t be his priority, but it is.

“I don’t know,” Scott says, frowning. “It’s probably been building up for a long time, but I’ve only seriously been thinking about it for a couple of months--”

“Months?” Stiles exclaims, delighted. Sure, he’s been thinking about it obliviously for weeks, but he only just realized this tonight. Fucking aces. “I was literally in my room five minutes ago thinking of how I didn’t want to be that asshole that spent a long time pining for no good reason. But guess what? You’re that asshole!”

“Fuck off,” Scott says, shoving at his chest, but Stiles just kisses him again. Because why not? He’s full of adrenaline and endorphins and a good deal of giddiness, and he’s going to ride that wave until he drowns in the undertow. 

Kissing Scott isn’t really like Stiles expected, mostly because he hasn’t had a lot of time to build up expectations. All things considered, though, it’s fucking great. Scott is strong, so Stiles has no issues resting his weight on his hips, knees on either side. Stiles is usually overflowing with nervous energy, but Scott’s hands in his hair help settle him, letting him take it slow before he tries parting Scott’s lips. When he does, Scott is so willing, so painfully willing, and Stiles’ undisciplined body starts revving up before Stiles can tell it not to. 

But because he’s Stiles, and he always thinks too much, he can only enjoy what it is probably the most revelatory makeout session of his life for a few minutes before he has to interrupt it. He pulls back up, his hands still cradling Scott’s jaw, and starts grinning like an idiot. “So.”

Scott giggles. “So.”

“You still have to open your present.” Stiles sits up and grabs Scott’s gift, which had been discarded up towards the pillows. He throws it at Scott’s face. “So open it.”

Rolling his eyes, Scott grabs it and starts picking at the corners. “Come on, Stiles. We’re busy. Whatever this is can wait.”

“No. Open it.”

“No.”

“Open it!” Stiles shouts, pressing the package into Scott’s face, being careful not to cut him with any edges or corners. 

“Fine!” Scott shouts back, pushing his hands away. It only takes him a few seconds to peel back the paper, but even in those few seconds, Stiles’ heart starts racing. What if this is too much? It’s supposed to be a joke, mostly, but what if Scott gets offended? Or takes it seriously? Fuck, he was making out with the guy five seconds ago. They’ve been friends for years. And now he’s worried Scott won’t get his humor? He’s running himself in circles. 

Scott snorts, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts. It’s a loud, unattractive snort, and it’s so condescending that Stiles would normally start throwing punches. He’s never felt so fond. 

“Really, Stiles? Condoms?”

“Extra large. Merry Christmas, indeed.”

“You already told me about that. You said that it was the only one in Heather’s bathroom, and you don’t actually need--”

“Who says I’ll be the one wearing them?”

That startles an even bigger laugh out Scott. It’s a beautiful sound, and even though Stiles has only been on this whirlwind for about thirty minutes, he knows it’s going to go right up there in his favorite moments. Right next to meeting Scott for the first time. They’re on the cusp of something, he can tell. The cusp of something awesome.

“If you can’t tell, I came in here intending to do exactly what you did,” Stiles says. “You just beat me to it.” He can feel his expression softening, his voice going quiet and gentle, and holy shit. He’s actually staring into Scott’s eyes. All they’re missing is some goddamn rain, and then Stiles could sell the rights to this moment to some self-published romance novelist. Scott’s eyes are really pretty, though. If they end up kissing again, it’s not Stiles’ fault. How is he supposed to resist when Scott looks up at him like that, with crescent eyes and laugh lines around his mouth?

Still, they don’t end up using any of the condoms that night. Stiles never really wanted to, anyway. He has no doubt that some day he will definitely want to, but first they need to work this out. They need to decide how they want to go about this, what to do if it starts going south, how to make sure they stay them throughout everything. And they need to go out on at least one actual “date.” Stiles has been known to dabble in one night stands, but Scott does not, and Stiles will not risk this because his dick can’t be patient. It’s too important for that. 

Instead, they spend the night filling up condoms with water and trying to make balloon animals. What else could he ask for?

Besides, Scott’s present is put to good use eventually. 

Merry Christmas, indeed.


End file.
